


The Case of the Poisoned Philanthropist

by localfreak



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Dubious Science, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-01
Updated: 2016-10-01
Packaged: 2018-08-18 20:49:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8175725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/localfreak/pseuds/localfreak
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is summoned to investigate the mysterious death of a young philanthropist.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I recently stumbled upon this in my files after writing it over ten years ago for my undergrad university's writer's guild challenge nights. I actually totally failed in the challenge itself (which was "write some steampunk" but back then steampunk was a very new thing and the articles I read on it weren't very clear!) So, it isn't steampunk, but it is a short little mystery story.

“Madam, I hate to interrupt but…”

“Oh don’t worry Fenton,” Mrs Vale replied, putting down her teacup, “The good Doctor was just indulging an old woman in her wish for company.”

“If only all my patients were as companionable,” I replied, smiling at the old lady.

“Well, Mrs Peters, the housekeeper for Lord Henry, is on the doorstep, she’s seems in quite a panic about…well, something about Sir Henry,” Fenton shifted uneasily, “I was wondering if I could go and see what I could do, and maybe if the good Doctor…”

“Certainly.” I replied, gathering up my things, “If I can be of any assistance.”

“Well go-go then, go on Fenton.” Mrs Vale made shoo-ing motions with her hands before settling back against the pillows.  
Mrs Peters was a small old woman, who gazed beseechingly up at me as we hurried along the street, “I’m so grateful, Sir, only I arrived this morning and the Master’s study was locked and him nowhere to be found and I went and got the key and…” here she broke off into hiccupping sobs, “and the Master lying there all covered in blood and…”

“Then we must hurry.” I told her, putting on a burst of speed, but I knew it was likely too late. Fenton and I ran up the stairs of the large house and found the room indicated, ignoring the disarray around me I went to the body of Sir Henry and searched futilely for a pulse, then, stepping back, took a deep breath. “Send for Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“Murder is it, Holmes?” I asked, after giving my friend a chance to examine the scene. The Inspector, Wilkins, spluttered but kept his peace, he and his men had arrived a few moments after Holmes and, luckily, Wilkins was a friend of Lestrade’s and thus inclined to keep his distance. 

“Perhaps,” came the reply.

“Perhaps!” cried Inspector Wilkins, “What else could it be, pray tell? With poor Sir Henry only in his 30s, lying there covered in blood.”

“He isn’t.”

“What?”

“It isn’t blood,” said Holmes, looking up from the debris of broken glass and pieces of some strange brass contraption. Dumfounded Wilkins stared at Holmes.

“Not…blood?”

“No. There is no wound, as Dr Watson could have informed you had you the presence of mind to ask. Furthermore if you would observe the rictus on the face of the corpse some form of choking seems the obvious conclusion but, again, there are no signs of strangulation and I would assume Watson has already examined the throat and mouth. 

“Indeed. There were no sign of obstruction.”

“Additionally, the door was locked from the inside, and the window similarly tightly shut and despite these signs of a commotion I can find little trace of anyone but Sir Henry himself.”

“But- his shirt-!” a wry smile came over Holmes’ face.

“Beetroot.”

“Beetroot?”

“The broken jar on the floor, I am reliably informed by the housekeeper, contained a sample of pickled beetroot, from Sir Henry’s country residence. Her late Master, apparently, had a particular fondness for it.”

“Then what would you suggest?” ground out the irritated Inspector. “Poison?”

“Perhaps.” Came the noncommittal reply, as Holmes concluded is inspection by rifling through the sheets of paper near the dead man’s overturned desk. A few moments passed before poor Wilkins spoke again, this time in a strained manner, “If you are quite finished, Mr Holmes…”

“Indeed. Come, Watson, we have enquiries of our own to make.” And with that he strode purposefully out the door leaving me to make my excuses and follow in his wake, knowing that that energetic, single-minded mood had taken him and I would get nothing more from him until the mystery was solved.

Hailing a handsom, Holmes barked out an unfamiliar address and bade me climb aboard, once settled I dared to ask, “Why are we going to such a disreputable part of town?”

Holmes smiled enigmatically, “We are going to call on a Mister Thomas Evelyn, who is currently lodging at the Bull & Chicken.”  
This was the first I had heard of Mister Thomas Evelyn, but I hazarded a guess, “I take it that this has something to do with the papers from Sir Henry’s desk?”

“Sir Henry Wollcott was a philanthropist of a sort, a powerful man who, although young, must surely attract enemies in those who disapproved of his work. Mister Thomas Evelyn may have nothing whatsoever to do with this matter, but considering it was to him that Sir Henry was writing when he died, and he was the only visitor calling at the house, according to the charwoman, in the past few days it would be folly not to speak with the man.”

“You think that he may be the murderer?”

“It is a possibility we must consider, but you know Watson that I disapprove of assuming conclusions when one is not entirely in possession of the facts.”

The area in which we arrived was a muddy squalid part of the town, with the air thick with smoke and the people poorly dressed and crowded together in doorways, the contrast between the understated opulence of Sir Henry’s town house was jarring.

“Can I help you gents?” came a thin, reedy voice as we entered the public house. A woman stood, half in shadow by the stairs, she wore a widow’s garb with a high collar and despite being of indeterminate age was a formidable tall figure of a woman.

“Good evening, Betty.” Holmes smiled, the suspicious face broke into a grin,

“Why if it ‘ent Mr ‘Olmes. Bit early in the day for you ain’t it?”

Holmes turned to explain to me, “You know that I have many places from which, if I am required, I may disguise myself before venturing out once more-“

I understood immediately, Holmes had shown me a few of these ‘hideaways’ of his, but most were in derelict buildings or quiet lodgings. I smiled at the woman, Betty and nodded to my friend.

“Will you be wantin’ your room now, Sir? Only I’ve not put new sheets on the bed today, as I didn’t get word of your coming.”  
“Not today, thank you Betty. We are seeking a word with Mister Thomas Evelyn, I believe he is lodging here.” Here Betty froze until Holmes continued, “He’s done nothing wrong, Betty, I seemly need a word with him.”

“I’ll have Arthur fetch him for you.” She said, gesturing us to sit at the bar whilst we waited and returning moments later.  
“I’m sorry about the suspicion, Mr Holmes, only the boy’s me nephew you see, jus’ come up from the country and since my Oliver died…”

“It’s quite alright, Betty, I understand.”

“Mr Holmes?” a nervous voice came from the stairwell, “Arthur said you were asking for me?”

The voice belonged to a pale thin-looking man, young in face and manner and with a distinct country accent.

“You are Mr Thomas Evelyn?”

“Yes, sir that’s me.”

“Please, sit down.” The young man did so, Betty discreetly moving some distance away.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes and this is my companion Dr Watson. We have just come from the house of Sir Henry Wollcott-“  
“Sir Henry?” The man’s face visibly brightened. “I am glad! I’ve been waiting three days for a message from him and I was beginning to fear that I had misjudged the man-“

“I am afraid, Sir Henry is dead.” I spoke quietly, scrutinising the reaction of Evelyn as I did so. His face fell and I could detect no sense of guile in his manner as he spoke, “What- but- he was so young- I saw him not three days ago he-how?”

“The police believe poison.”

“What? But-? I-who could have done something so terrible?”

“You went to see Sir Henry on a business matter, did you not?”

Evelyn visibly tried to pull his thoughts together, “Yes-I. I’m an inventor. Well- I’m trying- I mean- he- I was asking for his patronage on an invention, he thought it might help the poor on his land and- I- I suppose it doesn’t really matter now.”  
“An invention? Did you perhaps provide a model of the device?”

“Yes, sir, only a small working model. I left it with Sir Henry, he wanted to show it to a few friends of his and all but promised I would have his patronage before the week was out. I don’t suppose…I could have it back?”

“If it was a small contraption with a brass container on top I fear it is in pieces, but I shall endeavour to have the pieces salvaged if you think you can make use of them.”

“Oh!” if it were possible the man’s features became more miserable. “That’s…rather a blow if you’ll forgive me, Sir.”

“It sounds as if Sir Henry was eager about this invention of yours, would you mind telling us a little about it? A mere curiosity, you understand.”

Evelyn looked around at the few other people scattered around the room before gesturing we follow him up the stairs.

“I know it’s paranoid of me,” he said self-deprecatingly, “but bad enough to lose my patron and my model in such a manner, and I have a terrible fear of losing my invention were unscrupulous types to hear of it and market it as their own. Here we are.” He bade us follow him into a room. 

Paper was scattered everywhere amongst a pile of miscellaneous tools and pieces of copper wire and metal parts. Evelyn pulled out a series of diagrams which Holmes and I studied with interest, but I found them quite confusing.

“It’s not much,” explained Evelyn, “it’s a machine for ploughing and encouraging the growth of certain crops at a quicker rate than normal. The seeds are placed here.” He gestured to a portion of the drawing, “and the machine is fuelled by the compressed gas in these canisters. Beneath the seed-container there is a level of water and pipes to heat up the seeds and encourage their growth, and further power these-here-which move the wheels.” 

“I am not of a mechanical mind, I fear,” I confessed, “but it certainly sounds impressive- if this machine can do what you say then surely it would be a revolution for agriculture.”

“Sir Henry wanted to trial it on some land he intended to turn into orchards for the public’s use,” Evelyn told us, Holmes still seeming rapt as he paged through the difficult diagrams.

“Mr Evelyn,” he spoke suddenly, “If I were to arrange for the parts of your model to be returned as soon as possible, would you be able to re-create it within a week?”

“I-I could try. Why, Sir? Is it important? It-it’s not a harmful machine Sir-“

“Nonetheless I would like to see it, for I feel it may hold a clue to the death of Sir Henry.”

”M-m-my machine? But, Sir- I don’t see-“

“Try not to worry about that, “ I reassured the man, “it could hold, perhaps a minor clue and Holmes is a stickler for detail when trying to re-create what might have happened to Sir Henry.”

In the interim, as we waited for Mr Evelyn to re-create his strange invention, the mystery seemed to grow all the more perplexing. A man had died, choked to death, in a room locked from the inside, the windows barred shut and seemingly having met with no one since his charlady before she took her evening off. Sir Henry was a man who spent most of his time in the country, and seemed, by all accounts, to be an affable philanthropist with no obvious enemies in the world. We had assumed poison, but there were no traces in the beetroot juice, nor from the drinks decanter, which had escaped the struggle unscathed. 

Several days later a weary but bright eyed Thomas Evelyn arrived at our lodgings in Baker Street excitedly presenting Holmes with a strange contraption, “I don’t think I’ve ever worked so fast in my life, Mr Holmes, but I couldn’t bear to stop myself- I came ‘round the moment I’d finished it, I’ve been so worried about what happened with Sir Henry and if this could give you any clues, for all I can’t see how it might myself.”

“Pray, place it on the table and sit down Mr Evelyn,” said Holmes genially, “and then I am sure Dr Watson and I would be delighted to see a demonstration of your most unusual creation.”

The model, which stood at maybe 10 inches high, was a delicate piece of machinery, and for all that Evelyn had confessed that he had rushed whilst rebuilding it, the brass levers and wheels shone with a polished, inviting air. The contraption consisted chiefly of a large brass box, two piston-like containers, holding canisters of some description stood either side of the box with tubing connecting them to the bottom of the container on either side, additionally there were two large wheels on either side, large enough to hold the main box off the floor, and to guard most of the canisters from view; coming from the underneath of the box was a small hatch and a shorter wheel that looked very much like those one sees at a water mill, made up of tiny shelves. It was a most ingenious looking device, but one which baffled me completely in its makeup.

“The Crop Planting Device,” Evelyn introduced it, as he began to give a demonstration and his nervous air fell away as his passion for his work seeped into his voice, “works chiefly like this, I turn the switch on at the side here, and into the top of the container I place my seeds,” here he produced a handful of brown apple pips, “the farmer has already ploughed up the land ready for planting, but with the usual drag method seeds are scattered prior to germinating, I have discovered that by heating them slightly, using a fertilising mixture invented by a friend of mine, Edwin Potts, that I could guarantee seed-growth success, at a quicker rate than a normal plant, using this method. So I have placed the seeds in here, and the canisters containing a chemical formula which, again, I shall provide the equations for if it will help you, Sir, send heat to a small amount of water placed in a basin in a chamber of the container- the heat, through the brass, rises to the seeds here in the fertiliser and then we set it off,” as he did so the little machine wheeled itself across the table and the littlest wheel in the centre carried one or two seeds on each ‘shelf’ out of a hatch from the container and deposited them at neat intervals on the tablecloth.

“Ingenious!” I exclaimed, 

“Indeed,” said Holmes, looking as if he were about to continue before suddenly freezing and sitting bolt upright in his chair, then he rose and began to pace.

“Holmes?” I queried,

“Mr Evelyn,” began Holmes seized with excitement, “when you demonstrated this invention to Sir Henry did you do it in the same manner as you did here?”

“Why, yes, Mr Holmes, seeds and all- everything was exactly the same, and Sir Henry asked me to repeat the demonstration so that he might show it to his friends.”

“And you would have left him with all the necessary materials, including the seeds and fertiliser etcetera?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Aha!” Holmes gave a cry, “I have it. The puzzle pieces fit- the locked room, the windows, even the beetroot stains on the man’s shirt.” As he spoke Holmes was a flurry of energy, pulling on his coat and hat and Mr Evelyn and I could only follow, he clutching his machine as if wary of letting it out of his sight once again.

Holmes hailed a handsom and sent a message to Lestrade to meet us at Sir Henry’s house. The place had been tidied since, but the room in which the man had died still held much of his belongings, the desk, the tables etcetera. 

“When Sir Henry was found he was lying here,” Holmes pointed to a spot near the main window and paced the room as Evelyn, Lestrade and myself waited to hear his conclusion, “the only food in the room was evidenced by the broken glass jar, which had contained his pickled beetroot lying on the floor, the pieces of Mr Evelyn’s Crop Planter lay near the overturned desk and papers, including the letter Sir Henry was writing to Mr Evelyn. We all assumed, when we saw the dead man’s face, that he must have been poisoned by eating or drinking something, and the likelihood that there had been some sort of scuffle in the room indicated, too, that this was a murder enquiry. But that never did add up-“

“Do you mean to say that Sir Henry wasn’t poisoned, Holmes?” Interrupted Lestrade, 

“I did not say that Inspector, but it did not make sense- if Sir Henry had been poisoned by what he ate the poison ingested would have had to act quickly, to make sure the man did not simply escape its effects by means of a diuretic. Furthermore, the idea that there had been a scuffle in the room does not fit in with the behaviour of a poisoner. A poisoner is a man or woman who wishes to keep himself at a distance from his victim, he does not generally care to witness his crime the way another breed of murderer might- but in all of these assumptions we foolishly jumped to one conclusion:  
That Sir Henry Wollcott was murdered.”

“But- but surely he must have been- his face alone- what else?”

“Sir Henry was poisoned, yes, but he was not murdered. Nor was the poison present in any of the food or drink he ingested. Sir Henry was gassed.”

“Gas? But-Holmes-the gas in this house is interconnected, if there had been a leak we should have smelt it.”

“I am not speaking of the gas which comes from the mains, or even from pipes at all- Sir Henry, I believe strongly, died from hydrogen cyanide.”

We all stared perplexed, for I could not see for the life of me how Holmes had reached such a conclusion, 

“It would account for the state of the room,” I ventured, “for cyanide gas takes several minutes before it would kill a human, but it affects the respiration and nerves in such a way that one’s ability to move is impaired, Sir Henry could have knocked over the desk and chair himself.”

“Exactly, Watson. Picture this: Sir Henry comes into his study and sits at his desk with his jar of beetroot close by. He has recently been visited by Mr Thomas Evelyn who has demonstrated his delightful invention and provided Sir Henry with the means by which he could demonstrate it to his friends, which Sir Henry did so the day after his meeting with Evelyn. The invention is placed here on Sir Henry’s desk which, if you will notice is in direct view of the large window. However, despite Sir Henry’s care in demonstrating the device, he failed in one thing- he did not empty the leftover apple pips out of the container after he had shown it to his friends. He then leaves the creation in direct view of the window which will be hit by the evening sunlight. What hasn’t crossed his mind is that the container is made of brass and thus conducts heat easily. The pips in their fertiliser are heated by the sun even as he sits down to write his letters. He locks the door from the inside, as is his habit, and the windows are closed.”

“I still don’t understand-“

“Patience my dear Lestrade, and you will see the sheer accidental tragedy of Sir Henry’s death in full, for whilst the heat of the sun might have damaged the container somewhat, this in itself would not have caused a great deal of harm were it not for the fact that, as he ate, some of the juice from the beetroot jar must have fallen into the container holding the warm apple seeds. Pickled beetroot, thus the vinegar in the pickle, which is an acid, reacts with the heated apple seeds, this effect is heightened by the enhancing fertiliser mixture in which the seeds lie. Sir Henry would not have noticed anything amiss until the poison had already entered his lungs. He stands, knocking over the desk and chair in his haste and tries the door first, but his co-ordination is fading and he cannot open it, so he moves to open the window- but he never reaches it, and thus, quite accidentally, Sir Henry dies.”

“Astonishing, quite astonishing,” said Lestrade, looking quite at a loss for words.

Thomas Evelyn was now gazing at his invention with something akin to horror. “I’d never thought-I”

“Come now,” Holmes spoke to him kindly, “It wasn’t your fault, nor your invention’s in truth, it was simply part of a most perplexing set of circumstances.”

“Still,” Evelyn spoke broodingly, “I can see that I shall have to make several improvements on this design before I dare to try find another patron.”


End file.
